


Sherlock & Victor. Sherlock & Cocaine. Sherlock & John.

by Avath



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Greg is a hero!, M/M, Mention of sex, Reichenbach mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 11:39:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avath/pseuds/Avath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes reminisces about Victor Trevor, his cocaine use and how he came to be where he is today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock & Victor. Sherlock & Cocaine. Sherlock & John.

It had just been a song on the radio. Just one song among many others and, after, he couldn't even rememebr which one it was. It had still struck a chord in Sherlock and had had him speeding down memory lane much faster than the driver could get through the rush hour traffic of London. It would be faster to walk, but he didn't feel like it. He couldn't today. And now he was too busy thinking. Thinking about him. Victor Trevor.  
  
Sherlock could remember so clearly the first time he'd taken cocaine. He'd snorted it then, of course. Nobody used needles their first time. Victor, gorgeous Victor, used it at parties and Sherlock had out of curiosity tried it too. He had read about it beforehand, after the first time he'd seen Victor inhale the line of white powder. Euphoria. Kicking his thoughts into the next gear. Feeling invincible. It sounded nice to Sherlock. Really nice. And yet he'd hesistated. He knew himself. He knew how singularly obsessed he could get. He knew how it might go.  
  
But one night at one party, he had blocked his left nostril and snorted the white powder up through his right. And then his mind had started making connections faster and faster and faster until he was fully aware he was the smartest man in the world, nobody could surpass him in cleverness or creativity. He was a god amongst men and everyone else was to be pitied for their idiocy.   
  
The come down had been horrible. He'd sweated, shivered and been sick. But he hadn't been able to forget the amazing high, how light he had felt and how free he had been from insecurity and second guessing himself. He had been amazing.  
  
Victor had started coming around to his flat more often after that. They did cocaine together, argued about chemistry and had sex. It was physical and intellectual, and sometime when Sherlock looked at him, it had even been emotional.  
  
Sherlock being who he was, had soon found himself bored with the process of snorting cocaine and had looked to find other way of administering it. Injecting it had been the next logical step to receive a better, stronger high, so one day he had walked into a hospital and walked out with a bag full of stolen syringes, needles and bottles of sterile water. Sherlock was not one to put half an effort into something he cared about.  
  
The first time he'd injected himself with cocaine he had become a changed man. Nothing but cocaine mattered. What were intellectual pursuits to him when cocaine existed? What did the few social relations he had mean when cocaine was his best friend? Money wasn't a problem. He was a Holmes; there was always money.  
  
He injected himself with cocaine and he fucked Victor. Other things had fallen away with building speed until there were only those two things. Cocaine and Victor. Victor and cocaine.  
  
Victor who Sherlock watched sleep because it calmed him down and took some of the come down pain away. Victor who was so clever that he almost matched Sherlock. Victor who could enrage him, coddle him and make him beg to come.  
  
But one day, Victor had realised that even he had fallen away. Cocaine had won. So he had left.  
  
Sherlock had been alone. It wasn't unusual for him. He'd gone through most of his life knowing he was different and not only because he was gay. He was smarter. He cared less about things everyone else seemed to find important. And with the cocaine that was constantly coursing through his veins, he didn't care at all.  
  
Mycroft had happened to see him one day, walking the street, high as a kite. Sherlock had managed to keep his use of drugs secret up until then; a feat he was still proud of. But his brother hadn't been as nosy then. Not nearly as watchful as he was after he realised his brother had fallen deep down a hole he might never emerge from.  
  
Mycroft had seen to it that Sherlock's bank accounts were frozen. There was no money for cocaine readily available but, as addicts do, Sherlock had found other ways to get his drugs. He helped with illegal dealings (which later in his sober days he regretted so much that he vowed to solve whatever case he could even if it was boring), and in one memorable night he traded a blow job for a syringe of the beautiful liquid he wanted in his veins.  
  
There was nothing Mycroft could have done but have him followed at a distance. He knew his brother might never forgive him as it was, so he didn't dare interfere in any other situation than life or death. And more often than not, Sherlock was still able to give Mycroft's men the slip.  
  
On one such occasion, Sherlock took refuge in an alleyway, shooting up and then laying back against a pile of black trash bags. He was so out of it that he didn't notice the murder being committed near him, nor did he notice the flashing blue lights that arrived soon after. The first thing he was aware of was a man, greying despite being young, slapping him across the face and yelling at him to wake up. “You're going to hospital,” the man had said, hauling Sherlock up to a standing position.  
  
They had walked past the crime scene and Sherlock's interest had been piqued, his eyes quickly travelling across the blood, the body and all the obvious clues that gave the solution. He started to laugh, breaking free of the man's grip and going off in deduction after deduction until he had grown dizzy and lost the ability to speak. The man had led him to sit on the back of an ambulance and placed an orange blanket around his shoulders.  
  
“You know your stuff,” the man had said.  
  
“I observe,” Sherlock had said, smirking.  
  
“My name is Lestrade. We could use a man like you working for the Yard. We just need to clean you up first.”  
  
And Lestrade had taken Sherlock under his wing. He had brought him home and put him the shower and in fresh clothes. It had caused a terrible strain on his already weak marriage, and his wife had strayed on him for the first time but not the last. But Sherlock had stopped using and Mycroft had, without ever meeting the man who had saved his little brother's life, fallen in love with him out of gratitude.  
  
Sherlock had started coming on Lestrades cases, to the shock and jealousy of many of the staff. It hadn't helped that he'd insulted each and every one of them more than once and refused to apologise even when Lestrade sent him away. The animosity between Sherlock and the staff had grown so strong that Lestrade had stopped bothering doling out punishment. Both sides were equally as bad.  
  
A few months later, when Sherlock had been clean for ninety-five days, he'd found out where Victor Trevor lived and decided to pay him a visit. He remembered those nights when he would watch Victor sleep and the affection he'd felt. He wanted to rekindle it now that he was clean.

 

Victor Trevor had closed the door in his face. First by introducing his 'partner' and then literally. 

 

Sherlock had used that night and Greg had, with Mycroft's help, found him slumped in another alley.  
  
Greg never told Sherlock, but that night he had cried. He cried out of frustration and out of worry for Sherlock until he fell asleep, exhausted and with a headache.  
  
But that was the last time Sherlock had used, and he had decided then never to be put in the position to have his heart broken and led back to drugs.  
  
After a few months more of sobriety, Mycroft had restored some of Sherlock's funds but had delibarately made it so that Sherlock needed a flatmate to keep up his usual standard of living. And what a flatmate he had found.  
  
John Watson.  
  
John had passed every test: he had refused money even though he needed it, he had come to Sherlock's side to help him without question and he had moved in and _stayed_.  
  


And Sherlock had loved again. Angrily at first. Secretly. Fearfully. But John had stayed. They went on case after case together, risking their lives together again and again until one trip they had to sleep in the same room. He wasn't sure what had been different that night, but they'd fallen into bed and the case they'd come to investigate on the moors had fallen away.  
  
And Sherlock hadn't been alone. Not at all.  
  
But now he was. Again.  
  
He was leaving London. Leaving it behind with everything and everyone in it. John thought he was dead and Sherlock had seen and heard the pain he had caused by his stupidity. Moriarty hadn't been a game. And if he had been, Sherlock had lost. He had never been so humbled.  
  
Years passed in his exile and Sherlock used again. He needed John and John wasn't there anymore. John was in London. Moving on to a life without him.  



End file.
